Search

After my recent disappointment at being spammed by a bot on Tinder named Harlan; who was neither real, Texan, or capable of satisfactorily responding to anything I said (like most of my previous partners who share Harlan’s inability to listen). I feel that it’s important to lay down some ground rules in order to save you being lefted – at least by me[1].

Make sure people can see your face clearly. If I can’t see your face how will I know if you have a criminal shaped skull or not.

A photo of you in natural light would be a good. At least to let people know you’re not one of The Others.

It’s important to seem worldly. Just make sure all of your photos aren’t from overseas. If all your photos are of traveling then I’ll assume you’re swimming with the HIV after your slut tour of Eastern Europe.

I like the beach. I hate sand. This isn’t about sand. This is about your beach body. It’s unrealistic and intimidating. Don’t expect the same (think less a beach body and more of a beached body).

If you’re over 1609.344 km (1000 miles) away and you’re not Vanessa Carlton then no dice.

Unless you usually reside in my sisters box of Barbies/Ken dolls please don’t be a headless torso it will just make me think of prawns and seafood…Thai food…Vagina. Next!

Don’t call yourself a “Young Professional.” You’re an over educated under 30 year old wanker with a full time job.

Why would you describe your penis size as “decent”? Does that mean it will treat me right? Is it polite and well mannered? Will it be wearing clothes? Please just don’t describe it at all.

Fact: 33 year old men should not be wearing snapbacks. Ever.

That’s a great sleeping photo. Do you have narcolepsy? Maybe I’ll finally have my dream date!

The fact that you feel the need to tell me to “Say more than hi” makes me fear for your social skills. Also, why do I have to start the conversation? It’s a lady’s right to choose!

Please have more than one facial expression because I will conflate lack of expression with lack of emotion and sociopathic tendencies.

Like Nietzsche I think without music, life would be a mistake. Choosing lyrics from Riding Solo as your profound music quote is also a mistake.

If all we have in common is “Winking” and “Pelvic Thrusting” then I’m guessing our conversation won’t be particularly enlightening.

Don’t ask me inane questions in an attempt to be interesting. Opening with “What kind of dinosaur would you be?” is OK. Following it up with “What Sesame Street character would you be?” makes me think you like to dress up as an enormous prehistoric bird that spends a lot of time with children.

Without cattle and dairy farms I would not have meats or cheese so I appreciate your selfie with a cow. I don’t appreciate you being elbow deep in that cow.

Having a list of your likes and dislikes is useful. It helps me to decide if we could hold a conversation that lasts longer than Hugh Hefner. However disliking things like “people’s knees” and “the patch of skin between your nose and lip that acts like an oasis for sweat” is not. It’s just weird.

I think correct spelling and good grammar is important most of the time. However saying things like #unevaknowwatmayhapn is an abomination that should have been flushed at birth.

If we do not have Wine, Tea, Baths, Harry Potter, Soft Cheeses, 30 Rock or the Sound of Rain as at least one of our shared interests then you’re going down faster than a fat girl on a first date. The Grateful Head.

What’s that? You’re at the gym? In all your photos? Why not date a mirror?

Don’t talk about yourself for an uncommon length of time in the third person. I’ll think you have Dissociative Identity Disorder.

I’m sorry philistine; “An energy drink a day” does not keep the doctor away. It gives you cavities and diabetes. Enjoy life without a foot or teeth.

I will swipe anyone who shares a name with members of my senior year or a previous boyfriend. So that’s at least 160 I can cross off. I had a big high school; I’m not a slut.

What business does a 30 year old have in a children’s playground? Please see number 4.

If all you can tell me is that you’re a “Pisces who can’t drive.” Then you may as well be a virgin too because you are not an independent woman. The car I’m driving, I bought it. I depend on me.

Seeing photos of you with pets is great. I know you can care for something without it dying from starvation. However, photos of just your pet are disconcerting. I barely know how to interact with other humans so I can only begin to imagine the hoard of inter-species faux pas and (p)awkward situations.

If you’re a woman.

Why are all your photos of photos? If we are gonna perform inception then we need imagination.

Oh so you’re a professional Pokémon trainer? Did you catch all 152 STI’s? First generation syphilis.

Nowadays everyone wants to be unique. Apparently the best way to do so is to use unusual spelling of your name. Let us take Cory as an example. In one swipe session I encountered Corey, Corry, Koray Korrie and Cori. Your future as a bogan stripper seems very bright indeed.

If your reading glasses are so thick that they make you look like Professor Trelawney on crack how can I trust you to find the g-spot?

It’s important not to take yourself too seriously. So calling yourself a loser is nice in a self-deprecating kind of way. Spelling loser with two o’s is not, it’s just slack.

We can’t all have a winning smile but at least have a good dentist because your smile reminds me of some tic-tacs stuck in old chewing gum.

There’s nothing wrong with tattoos except when they come in the form of the acronym LTD (Living the Dream). I hope you get cystitis and hit by a bus.

This isn’t a soapbox. So please keep pseudo-philosophical quotations to yourself[2].

I get the joke but not everyone looks good in a bra. Especially when it looks like you could actually use one.

Encountering the ex is a tricky one. If you swipe to the right out of courtesy it may be construed as lingering affection. But if you swipe to the left then you look cynical and jaded. So, I guess only swipe right if they didn’t get fat.

Why are you holding a baby? Is it yours? Who gave you that baby? Did they know you were using it to solicit dates?

If it’s not a Chonmage, Sangtu, Sikha or a Tikitiki then you have no business in a topknot/manbun. The secret that they’re all hiding in their not so big hair is their equally small penis.

How many attempts did it take you to get that sublime sunset watching photo? I hope you got a melanoma. And your silhouette looks gay. Tell your gay silhouette I said “hi”.

Did I miss the point in time when “orifice” became part of everyday speech? I think you may have misunderstood Cher Horowitz.

Please learn the basics of perspective. Things that are closer to the camera will appear bigger. So try and keep your lollipop head away from the aperture.

I love that you build houses for orphans and work at soup kitchens. The closest I get to feeling charitable is watching Oprah re-runs. Subsequently I feel like if I’m not a pauper or a head case I’d be boring you.

Are you Indiana Jones, Humphrey Bogart or Freddy Krueger? No. Therefore you have no business in a fedora.

If you’re only here for “shits and giggles” go eat some raisin bran and hash brownies, you’ll get the same result. Plus the only asshole you’ll have to deal with is your own. We all win.

Oh really, you love sports? From what I can see the only sport you like is channel surfing.

Why are all of your photos with cakes? I can’t decide if you’re the best person ever or all your friends are actually cakes.

That’s such a great photo of you and all your male friends. I’d love to know which one of the seven you are. I wonder if I’m supposed to construe your extreme desirability from the sea of frothing bitches around you. I’d quicker equate it with syphilis.

I love your club photos. Are you a DJ? I too like to wear gas masks in abandoned warehouses. I hope you asphyxiate on your own sense of self-satisfaction.

Describing yourself as simple, loyal and very friendly makes me think you could actually be a dog.

In summary: I hate everyone. Who knows though, maybe Mr. Right is buried at the bottom of the pack.

* But fate deals the hand and I see, the joker is me! *.

[1]Sometimes I like to listen to songs about fire when using Tinder for the sheer intertextual thrill: We Didn’t Start the Fire (Billy Joel), I’m on Fire (Bruce Springsteen), Playing with Fire (The Rolling Stones), Light My Fire (The Doors), Beds are Burning (R.E.M.), Set Fire to the Rain (Adele), When a Fire Starts to Burn (Disclosure), Disco Inferno (The Tramps), Ring of Fire (Johnny Cash), Burning Love (Elvis), Girl on Fire (Alicia Keys), Chariots of Fire (Vangelis), Firestarter (Prodigy), Great Balls of Fire (Jerry Lee Lewis), Fire and Ice (Pat Benatar) you get the idea.

[2] Don’t let the worst of your past be the best of your future. Live for now. Profound choice! Don’t dream your life, live your dream. What we do in life echoes in eternity. Doing what I do today so I can do what I want tomorrow. Family and friends are the bedrock that creates a person of the world. Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take but by the number of moments that take our breath away. Respect yourself enough to know you deserve the very best. Life begins at the end of your comfort zone. Fantastical, satire, mysticism, romance.

With holidays now in full swing and my brothers recent engagement ringing in my ears I decided that the most productive way to spend the last two hours of my free time was by taking a Snapchat with my cat in manner of Kim and Kanye. Bound to be a spinster.

*Uh-huh, honey. *

After months of craving the freedom that comes with elasticated waistbands and a predominately topless existence, summer has well and truly arrived.

* I’ll just sit in the sun and crisp. You can’t get heatstroke twice in the same year. *

And after my little reality check back in November where I announced my celibacy and extolled the virtues of a pedagogical approach to my manstrual cycle. I have since managed to overcome a few issues that were weighing me down:

I accepted some of my insecurities.

I broke my drought.

I was vulnerable.

I am ready to be loved (vomit).

I realized goats’ cheese is a gateway cheese.

And I rediscovered my love of lists.

Let’s be honest, while most of the above were quite difficult to come to terms with and required a serious level of honesty and maturity read: boring. One did not.

Number 2 – The Drought & Mitch Buchannon:

Sleeping with new people is hard. I’ve tried using the Neverland method (second guy the right and straight on till morning) but it’s fraught with danger and pirates. Anyway ignoring the lengthy pre coitus ritual there are so many unknown factors involved with the act itself that are worth considering for e.g.

Do they have a salivary problem?

Will they leave their pet in the room?

What if they have a murdering fetish?

Are they Hannibal Lector?

Is their penis weird?

Correction; is their penis too weird?

* Yeah, but what about the stuff that get’s up around the sides of condoms? Okay, what about that stuff? Have you thought about that stuff? *

That is why when you’re looking to get back into the horizontal mambo you should always consider a previous dance partner. There are no unexpected surprises. It’s like doing your own Christmas shopping – you get exactly what you want and you don’t have to pretend to be excited about another “useful” gift that you’ll just throw away a couple of weeks into the new year.

*Merry Christmas, ya filthy animal. And a Happy New Year. *

So I did exactly that when I bid farewell to my yearlong bout of celibacy over the weekend with thanks to an old favourite; Mitch Buchannon.

* It’s been 300 hundred years right down to the day. Now the witch is back and there’s hell to pay! *

I’m not going to lie we had a pretty excellent understanding. Apart from one minor detail: the implied intimacy of prolonged body contact whilst lying on your side in a post coitus state.

* Don’t talk to me! Don’t touch me! I have to go. We have to leave now. I have to leave! We have to leave now! I have to go! We’re going. *

OK, I’ll admit it. I like a cuddle as well as the next fat person but what I don’t enjoy is the body heat that comes with it. Honestly, unless one of those spoons is filled with heroine there is no need to heat it to such an unbearable temperature. Not to mention that the sound of one person peeling themselves away from another is enough to make me sick and refuse any forthcoming attempts at putting your parched morning after mouth on my mouth.

* I’d be careful. That pony had a lot of water. *

And as far as staying the night goes I have only a single piece of advice. If you do decide to spend the night then it is imperative that you leave before McDonalds stops serving breakfast. If not to get the most hours out of the day then at least so you have time to grab some hash browns and hot cakes to fill the space that shame usually occupies. Stride of pride baby.

* Okay, here’s a little bedroom tip. Put a bag of popcorn in the microwave beforehand. That way when you’re done you have a treat! *

All in all it’s shaping up to be a very interesting festive season.

* Grace! It’s Christmas, for goodness sake! Think about the baby Jesus, up in that tower, letting his hair down so that the three wise men can climb up and spin the dreidel and see if there’s six more weeks of winter. *

* Don’t let no one in who’s not on the list ’cause this mess is gonna get raw like sushi, so haters to the left. *

This is the sort of introduction that can be found at the beginning of most teenage girls’ diaries. The sort of introduction that weighs heavy with emotional instability, delusions of grandeur, hormones and the pain of budding breasts.

*Why are my arms so weak? It’s like I did that push up last year for nothing! *

Actually, I suppose that’s more like Winona Ryder at the beginning of Girl, Interrupted but you get the picture; shit got real and I slept funny on my boob.

* You see a lot, Doctor. But are you strong enough to point that high-powered perception at yourself? What about it? Why don’t you—why don’t you look at yourself and write down what you see? Maybe you’re afraid to. *

It’s been several months since I stopped writing partly because I felt like I had nothing to say. I wasn’t enjoying what I wrote. I was over the relationship that drove me online in the first place and I saw little point in continuing using it as a billboard for my new, amazing and happy single life. I was done with being mean for fun. I was done using the blog as motivation for things that I was too afraid to do for myself. I didn’t know what I wanted or where I wanted to go. I was creatively and emotionally barren.

* Stick a fork in my Jerry. I’m done! *

What with the breakdown of my fathers marriage and the emergence of my own mental health issues in the intervening months, it became readily apparent that something was wrong.

* It’s the truth universally acknowledged that the moment one area of your life starts going OK another part of it falls spectacularly to pieces. *

I thought that if I could turn my sadness and loneliness into jokes and humourous situations for long enough I’d eventually break through to genuine happiness. What happened was I started to confuse the two. They both lost meaning and I became totally disoriented. The world seemed dull and lifeless.

* I have a problem? You say more inappropriate things than appropriate things. *

I’ve always smiled or put on a brave face when I say something bad because it’s easier. It’s always easier to pretend that everything’s OK. To joke about the fact I’m a spinster rather than to come to terms with an almost year long bout of celibacy due to my own insecurities. It’s important to feel things. Good and bad. So when you keep pushing away the bad, the good things don’t feel the same and you get tired. So very tired. And then the bad starts to win.

* Oh, Mrs. Dalloway… Always giving parties to cover the silence. *

That’s where I’ve been for the past four months. Trying to make some serious changes in my life to be a better person.

* And so if the government could just get to the kitchen, rearrange some things, we could certainly party with the Haitians.*

In doing so I’ve managed to gain a lot of insight into how I think. A pedagogical approach has given me the necessary drive to do what I want for me and not for what I think people want me to do. I can learn from the good as well as the bad and accept them both equally.

* I’ll show you how valuable Elle Woods can be! *

So I’m on the mend and ready to divulge details of my (l)awful existence and bring a little more reality into my life as Mister Spinster. Break out the brie and slankets it’s time to party…as soon as I finish these exams.

* I don’t think that I’ve ever been stressed out. Why would I be? I’ve got practically no responsibilities, my job’s a breeze and I’ve got a KILLER rack. Good morning. *

I have returned from a full-blown mid week mini break vacation (by myself) to the sad reality that I start the post-graduate law program tomorrow. My subsequent state of disarray finds me lacking previous paralegal employment (having quit a week and a half ago), in possession of no relevant textbooks (see aforementioned unemployment) and no boyfriend (read current position: bath with wine, soon to be: bed with wine and sleeping tablet).

* No, I’m no one’s wife, but oh, I love my life! *

My delightfully named “suicide holiday” in the mountains consisted of me watching movies, ordering room service and reading J.K Rowling’s rather expensive new book (expensive insofar as I had to buy a Kindle to read it as it was sold out in print). I did manage to get out for a nice walk with some tourists past some rocks and a missing person sign only to return a couple of hours later with cheese, crackers, olives and wine for a little indoor picnic. Not satisfied with eating a wheel of brie I cooked some noodles in the kettle and watched Seinfeld. Cut to me being woken by housekeeping at 8.30am with food scattered everywhere and the TV still on. I asked her to come back later and quickly got up and packed. It turned out I hadn’t finished the wine from the night before so I decided rather than let it sit in my bag and sweat or leave it at the hotel I’d just polish it off (all part of a balanced breakfast). Then I checked out and came home. A solid two days of masquerading as a shut in.

* There’s always going to be a part of me that’s sloppy and dirty, but I like that. With all the other parts of myself. *

At least I wasn’t the couple in the next room having furious coitus to Somebody That I Used To Know.

* That’s all I have to say about that. *

About a week prior I realized it had been far too long since I’d been intoxicated in a social setting. So, when I was a few bottles deep in slut juice I decided it was time to make like Beyoncé’s shoulders and Emma Watson’s eyebrows and get fierce. My friend hid our bags in a locked cubicle like they were Jaden and Will Smith and we partied till 5am. As it turns out I may or may not have met someone (who we shall call Josh Duhamel) and we have been texting him on the regular ever since.

* You know how it is. New school, new babe pool. *

I’ve noticed that I’m the type of person that likes to play games with other people. Not just because I’m manipulative and enjoy feeling superior but also because I like to feel as though there is some set of rules governing the awkwardness that dominates the majority of my attempts at general human interaction and by extension my recent endeavor to woo Mr. Duhamel.

*I’m gonna go talk to some food about this. *

I’m not, by way of association, proclaiming a love of sports. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. You’d think I’d share the plebian fascination with meatheads and a large variety of balls, but alas, those two things are only amusing in a metaphorical sense. Perhaps this dislike stems from the time my father heckled me when I accidentally landed, posterior first, on a soccer ball shooting it into the air like some horrible parody of a Ping-Pong show. Or more than likely it’s because the people who play professional sports seem to be only a couple of evolutionary steps away from flinging poo at each other.

* Hammer-throw. Definitely. *

Either way, I suppose what I’m trying to say is I don’t enjoy playing games unless they’re on my terms. Going from texts that make Yao Ming look short to absolutely nothing is making me worry. As my friend succinctly put it “we’re smart and therefore impatient – we don’t want our time wasted because we’re busy gals!”

* Is there some reason that my coffee isn’t here? Has she died or something? *

He’s still pretty cute though.

* One time, she met John Stamos on a plane and he told her she was pretty. *

I also had a very satisfactory encounter with my ex a couple of evenings after meeting Mr. Duhamel. Emilio Estevez (formerly knows as “the ex”) literally threw himself at me yelling “you’re my favorite person!” and “I miss you!” He even went so far as to text me (in a ham-handed attempt at making me jealous) later in the evening, telling me that the guy he was there with is “100% the biggest straighty 180. I would never flaunt. Or be a big fucker.” To which I replied with a picture of a takeaway restaurant and a happy emoji.

* Farewell, mortal bus-boy! *

Seeing him realize what a huge mistake he made dumping me in the first place is almost as satisfying as mixing prescription medication and alcohol. I do feel a bit bad for him. I mean he does have a lot of emotions. They’re just bottled up with the issues surrounding his parent’s divorce and his ability to talk without shattering glass.

* Big mistake. Big. Huge. I have to go shopping now. *

Really though, emotions are just like a big crying baby vying for your attention. They wail and wail until you pick them up to find they have carefully concealed a diaper full of poop and you’re stuck with the thankless task of cleaning them up – having all of your senses violated in the process.

* Smells like Bigfoot’s dick! *

Whatever, I don’t need emotions or a boyfriend anyhow. As Aristotle said “The law is reason free from passion.”

So I know I’ve skipped a week or so but its not like I’m going to get pregnant or anything. Fear not though, faithful readers, for I have been using the time wisely and have accomplished a great many things.

* I do not want to disappoint our Japanese public, especially Godzilla. Hahaha! I’m just kidding, I know he doesn’t care what humans do. *

1. I have found the connection between my love of rain and bacon. The sound of bacon being fried is not dissimilar to rain falling. Not to mention they’re both very comforting and great in bed.

*Are you achin’? Yup, yup, yup. For some bacon? *

2. I went to a 50’s themed party and decided that my safe place on the dance floor was the twist. Which in hindsight is probably the reason behind my difficulty walking the next day. Or the gentle rapist visited me in my sleep.

3. I got home at 11pm on an attempted night out and carefully charted George Constanza’s receding hairline across three seasons of Seinfeld. This was due to a bad trip at a Spring Breakers themed party several hours prior. The worst part was I didn’t get to show off my costume.

* What on earth are you wearing? You look like a common prostitute. *

4. Nandos is BYO and therefore an excellent place for a party. Just put some candles in that succulent flame grilled peri-peri chicken and you’ve got yourself a party.

* You wanted cake, you got cake! Now eat it! *

5. I finally graduated this week and to celebrate the occasion I decided to take my wand with me. I pretended I was Snape, whirled around in my academic gown and crucio-ed all the bitches. It was a great time. Mostly because I had people fuss over me all day buying me drinks and food. It was like a birthday for my brain!

*You is kind. You is smart. You is important. *

6. I helped my best friend make a video to celebrate his 1-year anniversary with his boyfriend and realized I will be alone forever.

* You look like that flashcard they told me means sadness. *

7. I didn’t like a woman’s outfit while I was walking to the bus stop so I farted upwind from her. Honestly who wears a mint green overcoat with a leopard print dress and zebra print shoes? She deserved to inhale fecal matter.

* You’re tacky and I hate you. *

After my last entry’s comments about Julia Roberts I thought what better place to find further direction than taking life lessons from a streetwalker.

Knowing someone has a thing for you has its upsides; you get to pretend like you’re not in the least bit flattered yet secretly you enjoy the attention. You answer their overly personal game of twenty questions with nonchalance and shrugs. You drop subtle hints of things you want and/or need then they magically appear. You act aloof and disinterested even though on some level the potential of human contact is the greatest thing to happen to you since that time you decided to eat soup in bed and kept the spill on your pillow for a midnight snack. Minestrone, you old devil!

But when you know it will never, ever, in a million years be a thing. Every tactless wink, every attempt at gratuitous body contact, every moment of plutonic banter and every time you catch them raping your unprotected body with their eyeballs makes you want to shrink them down, stuff them in a glass bottle, hide them in a HIVy gash and beat that shit like it’s a piñata on Cinco de Mayo. Especially when it’s at work.

*Never dip your nib in the office ink. *

In light of that particularly unfortunate situation I have been toying with the idea of celibacy. It makes sense. The thought of touching anything remotely phallic fills me with a mixture of anger and fear reserved for the Furby that I hid in my sock drawer at night in order to muffle its demonic phrases before I threw it out the window – not sure if actual childhood memory or plot to The Exorcist.

* I’m going to speak to some food about this. *

I don’t think I could really commit to celibacy though. Considering the pleasure I get from consuming a whole loaf of sourdough is tantamount to orgasm. It would just be wrong. I have been secretly hoping that a coeliac bites me and I become afflicted with gluten intolerance. Both celibacy and bread related abstinence seem somewhat unlikely after the cute sales assistant at the bakery correctly identified my Salvador Dali print jumper, smiled and made my tummy feel funny. Or maybe that was the couple of glasses of wine I had at 2:00pm. Either way, I’m back on the wagon.

* But I already have a drink. Do you think he’d buy me mozzarella sticks? *

So now that it’s well and truly wintertime down under. I can’t for the life of me understand why women continue to dress as though it’s the height of summer. It’s extremely frustrating. I understand that you have daddy issues and an overwhelming desire to parade around like a common whore. But can you please just wear some pants or a garment larger than your fake breasts instead of an outfit comprised predominately of bras and underwear. To those delightful women who scorn the latter please remember to carry a “slippery when wet” sign with you. Your trailing flaps have managed to make the sidewalk “slicker than cat shit on linoleum floor.”

* Mr. Gravity’s been very unkind to that woman. *

I realized that I’ve invested more time in this blog than into any one of my actual relationships. Probably because most of them acted like they were doing a fuck by numbers in the bedroom. And after reading that one in twenty five people are sociopaths I’m concerned that these last five months spent laying out my particular brand of crazy might not stand me in good stead for any sort of relationship; on the wagon or no. Oh well, what can you do? Lawyers are also the second most likely profession to harbor sociopaths. So what with my graduation looming and classes commencing in August at least I know I’m heading in the right direction. Now is a good a time as any time to watch The Pelican Brief and align my career once again with a role played by Julia Roberts. The former was finding a rich husband to take me to polo and curb my whimsical, slutty ways.

74kg (up from last week, despite diet), alcohol units 6 (fathers birthday and depressing insight into what I’ll look like at 55), cigarettes 0 (v.g.), calories N/A as cheat day and yum-cha was involved, sexts sent 2, sexts received 0, hours spend contemplating life alone 3.

V. big news. The spinster bible has a new chapter and it’s about boys and madness. Two things I am a well versed in. Singletons rejoice. For with a new bible come revelations and most importantly, commandments: “Thou shalt not commit fuckwittage.”

I was initially concerned about Bridget’s return to the fore of the social consciousness. I mean she’s been out of the game for seven years and a whole lot has happened: Beyoncé is queen, Tina Fey is still funny and cats rule the Internet. O.K so not that much has happened. So then where would this thirty-something park her now continent-sized bottom and how could Helen Fielding possibly make her relevant again?

Here are my suggestions:

There are GIFs of Colin Firth as Mr. Darcy emerging from a lake that Bridget needs to see.

With Masterchef on the up and up blue is now an acceptable colour for food.

There are so many faster, louder and quicker ways to embarrass oneself than misusing the fireman’s pole at Lewisham Fire Station.

Spanx are not just popular with grannies the world over; now everyone hates their body shape.

I forgot what real new years resolutions look like.

I want to see Bridget turn into Natalie Portman in Black Swan

There are lots of famous dead authors to invite to parties like whoever writes Amanda Bynes’ tweets.

Journalists now say fuck-all.

Tom would have to have done a duet with Sophia Grace & Rosie or simillar to get him laid for all of the noughties.

Bridget is verging on “cougar” territory – she should fight Madonna for Brahim Zaibat.

See through tops are commonplace. No tops/pants is the new way to go.

Isn’t it terrible about first world problems?

Google Maps will always show you where the toilets are.

Knitted sweaters of any kind are fashionable.

Titspervert is better known as Snapchat.

ATTN Facebook: “How interesting. What a gripping life you do lead.”

There once were two women who needed some food from a mans nether region. He showed them his back and opened his crack and defecated all over them kneeling.

She needs cats. Lots of cats.

Latin music is not a blip. J-Lo is here to stay.

There are more alcoholics, workaholics, commitment-phobics, peeping toms, megalomaniacs, emotional fuckwits or perverts than there ever were before. They can be found primarily on dating websites.

Mostly though it’s her struggles with life. The things we face day in day out that she takes on the chin. Her ability to see things from the outside. For solidarity and cellulite. For fuckwittage and failure. For hopeless romantics and just the plain old hopeless. Bridget will be there. Shining like a wobbly inimitable beacon in the proverbial darkness.